Last Son of the Highveld
by Invisible Ranger
Summary: We know Agent C.M. Kruger as a ruthless, fierce, psychotic mercenary. But was he always this way? What happened to make him who he became? Origin story with its roots in South Africa, circa 100 years before Elysium to just before the film's action. Baie Lekker!
1. Mother and Son

Last Son of the Highveld

By Invisible Ranger (HBF), 2013

Elysium and all related characters belong to N. Blomkamp/Tristar. Original characters are mine. This is not for profit. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Mother and Son

_200 Miles Southwest of Johannesburg, The Former South Africa, 2049_

It was called the Highveld Free State, a few hundred square kilometers of barren veld where nothing seemed to grow except despair. The name was a running joke among the inhabitants. Nothing about it was free. Every day was a brutal struggle to survive. Most of the whites who still clung to their roots in South Africa called the Free State home. The nation itself, fifty years after the promises brought by the end of apartheid, had splintered into a half-dozen squabbling provinces where tribal affiliation and language came before anything else. Some of the remaining whites with money had seen the writing on the wall and gotten out: Australia, Europe, even a lucky few to what was left of America. Most of those who remained had been slaughtered, hopelessly outnumbered, in the bloodbath of '37. Those who survived were forced, defeated and weary, onto a small piece of land no one else wanted. History, it seemed, had a sense of irony.

Rising temperatures and shrinking water tables had made the land, always harsh even in the best of times, a hellish waste. What vegetation remained withered and died. The few gaunt veld animals that weren't hunted for food fell to starvation and disease. Water had become more valuable than gold or diamonds. Banknotes, the few still around, were commonly used as either kindling or toilet paper. The only thing in plentiful supply was a gnawing, unbearable hunger.

Marina had never known anything else. It was a good thing she'd been born pretty, her mother used to say, for then she'd always have a way to earn a living. There were always lonely, desperate men who wanted a pretty face and a warm body, and they were abundant in the Highveld.

She was perhaps in her early twenties…she'd never known her exact age…but felt so much older. Nearly ten years of plying her trade had exhausted her in body, mind, and spirit. Her face _was_ still pretty, with its sensual lips, straight and even nose, pleasant complexion, and grey-green eyes. The rest of her was, like most Highvelders, leathery, stringy, and worn, like a piece of _biltong _left out in the elements too long. Her tattered dress, slim body and long braids made her look like someone's well-loved rag doll come to life.

Today was a special day, and her hunger and aches and pains would just have to wait. She'd managed to scrounge through the junk piles before dawn and find just what she needed to decorate her tiny shack: some torn bits of colorful cloth, the nubs of a few candles, even a piece of precious paper that she was able to draw pictures on with charcoal. Marina could hardly read or write, but she'd always had a knack for drawing. She drew things she'd been told stories about but had never seen: elephants with long trunks, prowling lionesses, graceful giraffes. And she drew the majestic kudu, with his tall, twisting horns. That had been one of the few animals she'd seen in person. She'd never forgotten the calm, noble, proud aura surrounding the big buck.

It was her hope that the kudu's spirit would protect Martijn. Make him strong and help him survive in the face of these unbelievable odds. He had no father, no brother, no uncles or grandfathers to guide him into manhood. He only had her, and she would not be with him much longer. It was only a matter of time before one of her many ailments did her in.

_He didn't know. How could she possibly tell him? _

"Ma?"

His voice startled her. He had a way of doing that, sneaking around on cat's feet. Marina smiled despite herself.

"There you are, my little _bokkie_," she said in her brisk Afrikaans. "What have you been doing all day?"

Martijn shrugged. "I dunno. Looking for lizards to sell?"

"Did you find any?" she asked hopefully. Lizards were each worth a cup or two of mealie at the trader's, being both tasty and hard to catch.

He plopped down on the dirt floor, his little face in a scowl. He had the most serious expression of any child Marina had ever known, almost like one of the grim-faced rangers. "No. I think they're afraid of me, Ma," he said.

Marina looked at her son with equal parts heartbreak and alarm. He was only five, but growing fast. He was, unlike most of the other Highveld children, tall and strong for his age. What extra food she'd manage to save the last few years had all gone into his mouth. There was no telling who Martijn's real father was, but he'd inherited her striking eyes, hawkish profile, and stubborn strength. He'd also gotten the useful ability to not only survive in harsh conditions, but thrive.

He would need it in the years to come, she knew. Perhaps sooner than she thought.

"What's all this, Ma?" Martijn asked, noticing the bits of color in the drab shack. The cloth had been strung up as a makeshift bunting, the candles lit.

"It's your birthday. You are five years old today." Marina knew this for a fact; her only surviving child out of four had been born, healthy and strong, on the longest day of the year. Which was today, December 21st. "We should celebrate, _ne_?"

Of course she had no real presents to give her son. There was never enough money for food, much less expensive toys. She did have a little cake made from the last of the mealie rations and some precious sugar she'd siphoned off from one of her richer clients' kitchen. A candle glowed in the center and she presented it to Martijn, who grinned.

"_Vir my_?"

_"Vir jou_."

"What should I wish for?" Martijn asked, his face golden in the weak light of the candle.

"Whatever you want, _bokkie_. Just keep it a secret and it will come true," Marina said softly.

He blew out the candle with a little puff of air. Whether he'd get his wish or not was out of her hands, but she knew she had to do _something _for him, and fast. Just this morning she'd been coughing up dark blood again. It had been the third straight day. There were few doctors left in the Free State and Marina couldn't afford one at any rate. She knew she was fading fast, and her son had just begun to live. What could she do to help give him a chance?

A plan had begun brewing in her mind some time ago. The idea had been born on one of her many visits to the ranger outpost in the _dorp_. Marina silently cursed her poor reading skills. What had that poster said? It was something important, she knew, something that might not save her, but could perhaps help Martijn. Then she remembered. It was a number, not a word, which was important.

She cleared her throat and spoke to Martijn, who was now devouring the cake with relish. "How would you like to be seven instead of five, my brave boy? Wouldn't that be something?"

He laughed through a mouthful of cake. "You're silly, Ma. How would I do that?"

It was all she could do not to cry. She embraced him tightly, feeling his warm body squirm and then relax. "_Ek het jou lief_, my little one. I hope you know that."

"I love you hundreds too, Ma."

Marina remembered the drawing of the veld alive with its many animals that she'd made for today. She decided to save it for later; maybe it would give Martijn courage in the days to come. And she didn't want her tears to blur the pictures.

She kissed Martijn on the cheek. "You'll need to get to sleep early tonight. We are going somewhere very special _oggendmore_," said Marina, her voice nearly breaking.

It seemed a foregone conclusion that he would protest, and he did. "I don't wanna! It's my birthday!" he howled.

With his little hands planted on either hip and chin jutted defiantly, it was eerie how much he looked like his namesake: her father, who'd died long ago fighting in a border skirmish. Even though this Martijn was still a child, it seemed also that fighting was in his blood. Maybe the agonizing decision she'd made wouldn't be so bad after all. Where she was taking him, he'd have a real chance. A chance to be a warrior and fight for a noble cause. A chance to retake their homeland. It wouldn't be easy, but Marina knew if anyone could survive what lay ahead, it was surely her Martijn.

_Warrior. That's what Pa had said the name meant. It fit him._

"How about," Marina said, trying a different tactic, "if you promise to go to sleep early tonight, I give you one present tonight and one tomorrow? _Wat se jy_?"

The sly smile on his face told her all she needed to know. "Sounds _lekker_ to me, Ma!" he said, his stubbornness turning instantly to glee at the prospect of getting a present. "What is it?"

"Close your eyes. It's a surprise." She briefly considered giving him the drawing…but that would mean at least a few hours of chattering and questions she couldn't possibly answer. It needed to be the other present first.

While Martijn waited, eagerly licking his lips, Marina pried up the floorboard where she kept her few pitiful valuables. In among the broken costume jewelry, worthless rand notes, and handful of cheap _dagga_ cigarettes was something she'd been saving for precisely this moment. The old woman she'd bought it from at the trader's had sworn it would work even on a lively boy like Martijn. There was no telling where the crazy old antie had gotten the thing, but Marina had bought it for almost nothing. She pulled it now from its cloth wrapping and looked at it with sad eyes.

_A full day_, the antie had told her. _He won't remember a thing_.

"Can I open my eyes, Ma?" Martin begged.

"Yes, _bokkie_, you can."

When he did, his eyes went wide. In his mother's outstretched hand was something few Highvelders ever got to see, let alone eat: a small bar of chocolate. That was the kind of thing the rich kids, behind their compound walls, took for granted. To Martijn it was too good to be true.

"_Ag man_, I must have been really good this year, _ne_, Ma?" he crowed.

"That you have. It's all yours."

Martijn scarfed the chocolate down in three bites, hardly bothering to taste it or even chew it. As he did, Marina wondered when its special ingredient would kick in. Would it be a minute? More? And she hadn't bothered to ask the antie anything else about it. What had she been thinking? She could have sentenced her son to the same fate she herself would suffer soon.

But, as if by magic, all Martijn's youthful energy seemed to drain out of him, like precious rain being sucked up by the dry veld. He yawned. "That was pretty _lekker_. Can I have more?" he asked, sounding sleepy.

"I told you, you need your rest," Marina said gently. She guided her son over to his pallet, helped him lie down. His eyelids drooped, and his body felt limp like a straw doll's. The drug, it seemed, had worked perfectly. "_Goienag, en sote drome_, my sweet boy."

"Can you," he asked, yawning widely, "sing me a lullaby, Ma? Please?"

The request caught Marina off guard. He hadn't asked her that in at least a year. It was the kind of thing Martijn usually made fun of now, since he was usually off in the veld now, trying to be a man: hunting lizards, spearing fish, and brawling with kids twice his size. Lullabies were for babies, he said. But something in his voice made her unable to refuse him. She'd never been able to carry a tune well, so she chose a simple song, one she vaguely remembered her own mother singing. The words came to her now as if it had been yesterday:

_Jan Pierewiet, Jan Pierewiet, Jan Pierewiet staan stil,_

_Jan Pierewiet, Jan Pierewiet, Jan Pierewiet staan stil_.

_Goeie more my vrou, hier's 'n soentjie vir jou_.

_Goeie more my man, daar is koffie in die kan_.

Marina sang the next two verses of the song. In no time at all Martijn was sound asleep, snoring like an old man would. She pulled the thin blanket up around his chin and shivered despite the heat. Tears blurred her vision as she looked down at her sleeping son.

It would be a long time, she thought, before anyone sang to him again.

_To Be Continued_


	2. The Kraal

Chapter 2: The Kraal

The next morning Marina was up before the sun. It would be a scorcher, she knew, and she had a long journey to make. At least half a day. Whether she would even make it was the real question. On her visit to the privy pit, she'd coughed up another spattering of blood.

Marina knew she couldn't worry about that now. She had her son to think of. He, unlike her, had slept the whole night and was still snoozing. Whatever had been in the chocolate had been powerful indeed. Martijn almost never slept long. She could only hope he would stay sleeping.

Outside the shack, the eastern horizon was a scarlet wound. Before long the dry veld would be a furnace. The earlier they set out, the better. Marina had traded some dried mango to the widow next door and gotten the use of the old lady's swaybacked donkey for the day. As she approached its corral, the animal brayed as if to protest. She was able to untie its rope halter and led it into the shack, where it stood, looking confused, next to Martijn's pallet.

"Oi, you silly creature, kneel down," Marina said, pushing down on its hindquarters.

The donkey obeyed. The tricky part was getting Martijn's dead weight out of bed and onto the donkey's back. Hard to believe a mere child could weigh so much. Finally after a few minutes she managed and the animal stood.

Marina took a long look around the humble shack, at all her worldly possessions. This was the place her son had been born, had taken his first steps, spoken his first words, spent all of his young life. He knew nothing but hunger, thirst, and want. She had to give him this one chance at something better, even if it was tearing her apart inside.

_Even if I never see him again…and I don't expect to…he may be famous some day. A ranger, maybe, or a bodyguard to one of the rich families in Pretoria. Then all of the Highveld will know his name. He will live up to our family tradition, be a warrior and a true descendant of _Voortrekkers._ Maybe he will even be the Kommandant when he grows up!_

The first cry of a rooster interrupted Marina's fanciful thoughts. Dawn was breaking, and she had to go. She clucked her tongue and the old donkey, Martijn on its back, walked on.

She never looked back. Her shadow stretched out to her left as she began the long walk north.

It was days like this that made Willem van Wyk curse out loud to any god who might be listening.

There was the damned heat, tough on anyone but sheer torture for a crippled arthritic well past forty. The bloody horseflies, who seemed to regard Willem's body as their personal mess hall. The water delivery, a day late and nowhere in sight when the fort was down to its last muddy reserves. And of course, there was Nicolas. Nicolas, with his endless talk of raids, recapturing glory, and showing the damn _kaffirs_ their place.

All of that would have to wait. Willem had rounds to make.

He dressed carefully and neatly in his well-worn fatigues, wincing as always when it came time to pull on his trousers over his damaged right leg. It would never do for his men to see that he, too, felt pain. Plus, unlike most of the men his age and younger, he had no medimplants or bioupgrades. Willem neither liked nor trusted the things. Mere flesh and blood had served him well…for the most part, anyway. It was the reason he'd never accepted one of the many offers from the trainees to serve as his valet. They'd have to see him in his natural state, and then the whole bloody fort would know he was a _suiwer_. Grunting, Willem laced his boots tightly. It had to do since he was also too stoic to use a cane or other walking aid.

Willem hobbled over to the window in his second-storey room. Opening it, he looked out over the courtyard and saw the third- and fourth-years already working through their morning calisthenics. He allowed a smile to creep over his face. Good boys. That meant things were running smoothly, and he liked it when things ran smoothly.

He made his way slowly down toward the mess. Yesterday's march had taken a lot out of him, and he found that he was starving. Along the way the recruits he encountered all snapped smart salutes. One of them, a trim redhead, stopped him just outside the armory door.

"_Heer Kommandant_, _goiemore_," the boy said, formal and solemn as always.

Willem tried not to smile. Johannes was one of the best students he'd ever had, and truly aimed to please. "At ease, Coetzee. Let's hear some of that English you've been studying," he prompted.

Johannes cleared his throat and switched languages. "Sir, I've helped Mr. Lamerding conduct the inventory in the pantry as you ordered. It's low but we should have enough for the week. I also took that one second-year, Thomas, to sickbay. Something he ate didn't agree with him," he reported in accented but clear English.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. I hope you studied for your history exam today?" Willem insisted that all his trainees learn their past so that they might better understand the difficulties of the present.

"Yes, sir. I hope to receive top marks."

Willem clapped the boy on the shoulder. "I'll be grading the exams myself. I think you will, if you did in fact study your books and not your holo-reader."

Johannes nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir," he said. He looked as if there were something else he wanted to say, and he finally did. "There is one other thing to report, sir."

"What is it?" asked Willem, hoping it would be brief. The mess was waiting, with its tantalizing smell of roasting meat, and his stomach was an empty pit.

"It's…a refugee, sir. A woman. She refused to leave, and she insisted on speaking to you personally."

Refugees were everywhere in the Highveld. Not a week went by without a score of them knocking at the _kraal_'s gates, begging for food and medicine and all the other things which were already in short supply. Most were turned away. A few, if they had useful skills and were healthy, might be invited to stay and provide needed labor. "What's so special about this one?" Willem wondered aloud, shifting his weight to his good leg.

"Not sure, _meinheer_. She looked desperate and…" Johannes trailed off, his English having switched back into Afrikaans. That always happened when he got anxious, Willem knew.

"What is it?"

"I think she may have the _rooiplaag_. She has all the signs of the advanced stage. Can't we at least let her die here? I can use her to learn, and once she's gone, maybe I can salvage a few bits." Johannes' earnest plea would have sounded grotesque to an outsider. To Willem, it sounded merely practical. They hadn't had a proper doctor in years at the kraal, and Johannes had been studying hard to fill the role. The Highveld was crawling with infectious diseases, some natural, some concocted in labs. _Rooiplaag _was one of the few which wasn't spread easily. A fresh autopsy might do the boy some good if he was to be a real surgeon. Make sure he had the stomach for it.

"Fine. But not a word of it to the _kolonel_, you understand?" Willem realized he was also speaking in his native Afrikaans. "Let me come with you just to make sure she's not some bloody Typhoid Mary who's going to kill us all."

"Who, _meinheer_?"

Willem did smile this time. "Never you mind. Take me to her." He followed Johannes down the hall to the courtyard as fast as his stiff leg would allow. Breakfast, he thought with resignation, would have to wait.

s s s

The kraal's gate remained shut. By the time he arrived, Willem was cursing anew and wishing he'd at least brought a piece of _biltong _to quell his hunger. "Open it," he ordered Johannes.

Once the reinforcing bar had been removed, the gate swung partially open to reveal the woman, who stood next to an equally pathetic-looking donkey with a bundle on its back. She was young but gaunt and hollow-eyed. How she'd made it across the veld was a mystery, for she was, as Johannes had observed, clearly sick. Her fair skin was flushed and she shivered despite the blazing heat.

"_Goiemore_, madam. What is your business here?" said Willem politely but curtly. He already knew what she was and, likely, why she'd come. He knew her kind well and refrained from their services, given the diseases most of them carried.

"Please, _meinheer_, I need your help," the woman rasped. "I have come a long way."

"Many need our help. What can you offer us in return?"

He was beginning to agree with Johannes' idea, that she would only be useful as a laboratory specimen, but then she did something that surprised him. "I have brought you a new recruit," she said, pulling the blankets from the donkey's back to reveal a small boy. "He is just now seven. He is strong, too. See for yourself."

Willem looked the lad over. He was sound asleep but clearly not sick like his mother: well-fed, healthy complexion, tall. "We only take in a few in the dry season. Not enough food to go around. I can, however, agree to take him after I ask a few questions. Answer truthfully, please."

He proceeded to ask all the usual things to try and weed out the sickly, stupid, and worthless. She told him, breathlessly, as if she feared she would die any moment, about her son. No father, no money, but healthy, clever, and a good brawler. Willem found himself nodding along. This was certainly a good candidate, even if they were full in the corps already. Something about her story was compelling and made a good case. "What is your surname?" he asked.

"Oh. It is Kruger, _meinheer_."

"And the boy's Christian name?"

"Caspar for my brother, Martijn for my father. He is called Martijn, though."

A jolt of electricity coursed through Willem's body. He must have looked just as stunned as he felt, because the next thing he remembered hearing was Johannes' anxious voice.

"_Kommandant_? Sir, are you all right?"

"Yes. Very well," said Willem, regaining his composure. "Madam, we will take your son into our corps, under one condition." Before he could say what that was, he turned to his companion. "Johannes, why don't you take Martijn to C-barracks and get him processed? See to it that he pairs up with Geert; they're about the same age and will be good for one another. Off with you now."

Johannes nodded. He easily took the sleeping boy from the donkey's back and trotted off toward the barracks.

That left Willem alone with the woman. She looked fearfully at him. And he, battle-hardened, bearded, scarred, and standing almost two meters tall, must have indeed looked fearful to such a frail creature. "You…you'll not be needing me, _meinheer_?" she asked.

"No." That the poor woman was still wanting to ply her trade in her weakened condition both saddened and repulsed him. "It's about you. The one condition I told you about? It's this. Here, hold out your hand."

From his utility belt, he removed several full syringes. They were tiny but precious. They had been meant for him and his bad leg, acquired at great cost through a black market dealer. Now Willem suddenly found that he actually wanted to give them away. "Take these. Go, if you can make it that far, to Edeldorp by the river. There's an old doctor there, named Lars Smit. Tell him I sent you, show him these, and he will take care of you." Johannes' medical training would have to take place on some other poor soul.

The woman blinked up at him. "I don't know if I can make it, _meinheer_. I'm so very tired." She looked ready to cry.

He knew she was thinking of Martijn, whom she'd never see again. He knew exactly what was going through her mind right now. But he'd long ago put such thoughts to rest. Now he was a veld ranger, a warrior, a _Kommandant_. And that meant doing the hard things, like never allowing his emotions to get the better of him.

With absurd ease he picked the woman up and set her on top of the donkey. "You will make it. Look to the west, follow the river. It isn't far," he said gently.

"Will you look after Martijn? Make sure he survives?" She was openly crying now.

Guarantees in the Highveld meant nothing. If disease, starvation, thirst, or raiders didn't kill a person, sheer despair might step in and do the job instead. Martijn couldn't have been more than six, Willem knew, not seven as his mother claimed. Not really old enough to face the rigors of training or be away from his mother. But he needed to do this crazy deed, if for nothing else as a matter of honor. If Martijn was true to the toughness of his family name, the lad might just have a chance.

"I will look after him to the best of my ability," Willem promised. "Now go, before my men wonder where I've gone."

"Thank you. I'll not forget your kindness," the woman said, still sniffling, as she kicked the donkey's flanks and trotted off.

He stood a moment at the gate and watched her go. Only with a bit of luck would she make it, since Willem had no men to spare to escort her to safety. Besides, he thought, she maybe had a week left in her. She was doomed. The vials had been intended for her comfort, not her cure. Nicolas would be furious if he knew. But, if Willem had his way, it would stay a secret. And besides, he, Willem van Wyk, was the Kommandant of Gryswolfkraal, not Nicolas Venter.

Which reminded him. He still needed to make his morning rounds, get a cup of veld coffee, and do something about this bloody empty stomach. When he could no longer see the speck that was Martijn's mother on the horizon, he turned to hobble inside.

s s s

Martijn opened his eyes.

Where his mother should have been, and the familiar walls of their shack, he saw instead only four concrete walls barely lit. Could this be a dream? He closed his eyes tightly, but when he opened them, the stark setting was still there. No dream after all.

"Oh. You're awake. _Baie goeie_."

He hadn't seen the other boy at first, but he stepped into the meager light now. He was sandy-haired, skinny, and wore loose camouflage pants. "What's your name?"

"Martijn." He rubbed at his aching head. This, he reflected many years later, was the first _babbelas _ he'd ever had, and it felt like he'd been hit with multiple hammers. "Where am I?"

"You really don't know?" The other boy's face was hard to read, but Martijn, correctly, guessed he was terrified. He leaned down as if to reveal some private secret.

"This is hell," he whispered, "and nobody ever gets to leave."

_To Be Continued_

_Author's Note: There are a number of Afrikaans phrases and words used in this story. I have used a number of sites including __ . __. If there are any native Afrikaans speakers, please feel free to offer suggestions. Baie dankie!_


	3. The Horse and the Hyena

Chapter 3: The Horse and the Hyena

"What d'you mean, hell?" Martijn asked, still confused but starting to get upset as well. "Ma says there is no heaven or hell. That it's all made up, like _Sinterklaas _or some fairy story."

"Your Ma doesn't know what she's talking about, then. 'Cos this is it." The other boy hopped up on the cot next to Martijn and looked around nervously, like he was afraid someone might burst in on them. "Where'd you come from, anyway? You weren't here when I woke up today."

Martijn had to think about this for a moment. He had never had a name for his home: the endless bush country, the stream where he liked to catch lizards and frogs, and the metal shack next to a handful of other shacks. It was simply _home_. "Somewhere else," he said.

"You must be a real _gomgat_. You got any upgrades at all, _boet_?"

"What are those?"

The boy pointed to Martijn's left forearm. Where there had once only been soft skin, there was now a strange stamped barcode-32A21B- below a wolf's head emblem. It didn't hurt and there was no scar. Martijn stared at it, fascinated. "How'd I get that?"

"Prob'ly got processed before you came in here. Looks like your hair's all gone too."

Indeed it was; where there had once been a wild mop of brown hair there was now only short spikes. Martijn also looked down to see his clothes from home were gone; in their place were loose-fitting fatigues and leather _vellies_. He'd never worn shirts or shoes much at home and these felt strange to him.

"What's your name, anyway? And why d'you talk so funny?" Martijn asked, rolling up the sleeves of his too-big shirt.

"Geert Oosthuizen. My Pa was a ranger, and he sent me here so I could be one too. But he's dead now," said Geert, strangely emotionless, as if he were only talking about the weather. "What about you? What's your Pa like?"

That was something else Martijn never had a name for. When he'd asked Ma about it once, her eyes had gotten teary and she'd quickly changed the subject. He'd never asked again. "I never met him," he said, shrugging.

"Oh. Well, I guess it's okay if you don't have a Pa, since there's lots of _ooms_ here. Some are all right but some…" Geert trailed off and looked quickly around the dormitory again. "Well, there are some you'd best avoid, you know? The squad leaders, too. I'll tell you which ones those are…"

Martijn wasn't really listening as Geert recited a list of names. He was looking out through the small window on the far wall, wondering if this wasn't a joke Ma was playing on him. Any minute she was going to walk through the door, tell him it was one big lark, and that the two of them would be going home to supper and _rooibos_ tea. But she didn't, and he somehow knew this was no joke. He'd never before been apart from her. Yes, there were his many solo trips out into the bush, but he always came home at night to find her. Why had she left him here in this strange place all alone? Had he done something to make her angry?

"Quick, get down off the cot and look smart, _boet_. Someone's coming!" hissed Geert, interrupting Martijn's thoughts. He must have had good hearing, because Martijn didn't hear a thing. "Oh, wait. It's just _Oom _Perdi. I hear his bad leg. You can relax a bit; no worries, just stand up straight. He's picky about that."

A thousand questions ran through Martijn's mind and, before he could ask Geert a single one of them, the door opened and a man, who had to duck through the low entrance, came in. Martijn jumped to his feet and tried to follow Geert's advice to stand tall. The huge man, if angry, looked like he was capable of breaking both of them in half. His weathered face was stern and unsmiling. When he spoke, though, it was less like an angry giant and more like a gruff but kindly bear. His genteel accent was strange to Martijn's ears.

"I see you're finally awake. Welcome to Gryswolfkraal, Recruit Kruger."

The man might have told Martijn he was on the moon for all the clarity it provided. He still had no idea where he was, how he'd gotten here, and most importantly, why his Ma had left him. "I want to go back home. Where's my Ma? I want to see her," he said, painfully aware of how stupid and babyish he sounded.

"You're here to stay, I'm afraid. Your Ma has urgent business to attend and we promised to look after you. This is your family now," the man said gently but firmly. "I am Heer Willem van Wyk, the commander of this fort and its corps. You will address me as 'Kommandant,' and all your superiors as 'sir.' I like rules to be followed, and I'll expect Oosthuizen here and the other cadets to fill you in quickly on those. If you do follow the rules, I think you'll get along just fine. Your Ma tells me you are a clever boy, _ne_?"

Martijn folded his arms defiantly across his chest. "I am really smart, and I can fight the big kids, too. I'm not scared and I don't need looking after."

"I have no doubt of your courage. You will need it in the weeks to come, for we of the Wolves do not tolerate weakness or cowardice," the Kommandant said, more sternly this time. "I must be going to grade my exams now. I'll give you the rest of the evening off to settle in and sleep, then I'll expect you at 0600 tomorrow for calisthenics. Oosthuizen, you make sure he's on time, understand?"

Geert nodded. "I will, sir."

"You'd both best make your way to the mess. Someone managed to snare a boar tonight, and I don't expect it will last long." Willem turned to leave. "Stay out of trouble, Kruger. I expect great things from a boy with the surname of the great Oom Paul."

Martijn watched the big man go. Something about his walk was strange, like one of his legs was shorter than the other. Geert jumped right in and started talking as soon as the door closed and they were alone again.

"Oom Pardi's a cripple, got shot by some Bantu a long time ago and so proud he refused biotreatment. That's what I heard, anyway. Don't ever say a word about it. He's kind enough as they go here, but I seen him dole out a few lashes for okes makin' fun of his bad leg."

He was talking a kilometer a minute, and it all sounded so strange. For every question Geert answered, Martijn had ten more. "Why's he called 'Uncle Horsey?' The Kommandant?" he asked.

Geert laughed. "He looks like a big old war-horse, doesn't he? You know, the real ones like from old stories, and not the 'bots? Walks like one, too. We all call him that in private, just like the _Koronel _is always _Oom Hiena_. But like I said, just stick with the proper stuff and you'll be fine."

How Geert could be smiling while talking about beatings, Martijn had no idea. He never remembered Ma, or anyone else, beating him. There had been a _sjambok _hanging in their shack and all she ever had to do was threaten its use to make him behave. "Did _you_ ever get beaten?" he asked Geert, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Yeah. Loads of times. Riaan and his gang love to dish it out. I haven't gotten one in a while, though." Geert's casual tone was unnerving, but Martijn saw the fear in his eyes. He didn't know who this Riaan might be and he certainly didn't want to find out.

"I'm pretty _skraal_. D'you know where we can get some food?" Martijn realized the last thing he'd eaten was his birthday chocolate and mealie cake. His stomach growled.

At the mention of dinner, all traces of anxiety disappeared from Geert. "C'mon. I'll take you down to the mess."

*S*S*S*

Someone had indeed managed to trap a boar; that was the good news. The bad news was that little of it remained by the time Martijn arrived, alongside Geert, in the dining hall. Geert nevertheless got a decent-sized piece, along with some steaming mealie porridge and a shriveled apple. Martijn mostly got gristle but devoured every bit anyway. Meat was a luxury at home. The tough hock tasted like heaven to a boy who had grown up eating lizards and fish heads when times were lean.

What he didn't realize in his gluttony was that every eye in the mess was fixed on him. Perhaps forty cadets of various ages sat scattered at five large tables. Geert, knowing that a newcomer was always an object of curiosity, had steered Martijn to the very end of the table closest to the door.

"I don't see Riaan or his okes anywhere. Guess you got lucky tonight," said Geert, biting into his apple. "You'll see them at drill sometime soon. Or in the corridors. Be careful there. They're sneaky bastards and they like to torture us firsties when the Ooms aren't looking."

Martijn, who'd been gulping down milk, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Firsties?" he asked. So many words were strange to him here.

"Oh. Yeah, it means first-years. You'll hear them call us loads of stuff worse than that," he said, and proceeded to rattle off several rude terms Martijn had only ever heard from the drunks who hung around the _dorp_ sometimes. "They also like to give out demerits, so try to be _paraat_ and you should be okay."

He could tell there would be a lot to learn, and not a lot of time to learn it. It was a good thing Geert seemed to know everything. "What happens when you get demerits?"

"Depends on who it is giving them. Oom Pardi usually wants laps or push-ups, Oom Reehert is keen on lines, Oom Muishond makes you wash dishes in the mess or clean the heads."

That didn't sound so bad, thought Martijn. He was used to running long distances, and Ma had always made him help with chores. Then he frowned. Geert had been talking about beatings, and cruel types, and someone ominously named Oom Hiena. _Hyena_. Another animal he'd never seen but which Ma had drawn once. An evil-looking thing with a bristled back, feral grin, and horrible teeth. Jaws more powerful, she said, than even the mighty lion. "What about that other man? The Hyena?" he asked.

Geert clapped a hand over his mouth. "_Eish, _man, don't say that name in here! Y'want me to get striped or something?" Several of the boys sitting nearby were openly staring at them, like they were amazed anybody could be so stupid.

"Why not?" Martijn said. "It's his name, isn't it?"

The other boy was shaking all over now. "He's the _Koronel_. Only Oom Pardi outranks him, so he's in charge a lot. Don't ever call him anything but 'sir.' And don't look him in the eye." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "If this is hell, he's surely the Devil."

Martijn wondered what this man was really like. Maybe Geert was just trying to scare him, like Ma used to with her stories about ghosts and bogeymen on the veld. "He can't be that bad, can he?"

"I'll let you decide that once you meet him...and his friend the _sjambok_."

Thoughtfully, Martijn gnawed at the last of his meat scraps. He was still hungry, but the boar was only a carcass now. He let his eyes drift over the mess hall, meeting the gazes of a few of the cadets. Some were about his age, some older, and a handful looked to him almost grown. All wore the green and tan fatigues like his. He couldn't decide what seemed strange about them at first, but then he realized every one of them was well-fed. There was not a single skinny or gaunt one among them. Nor were there any girls; it was an all-male group.

The strangest thing was, he saw, that almost everyone had some sort of metal bits stuck to his face. What in the world were those for? They looked like they would hurt. Martijn rolled up his sleeve and stared at his new tattoo. That didn't hurt a bit. Maybe those weird implants wouldn't either. He was about to ask Geert about how they worked when the mess door burst open. Three teenaged boys marched in, a pole slung between them with the bloodied form of some animal hanging down. These three wore different , more elegant uniforms, along with some kind of body armor. They were also armed, Martijn saw, with the sorts of weapons he'd only ever seen rich men's bodyguards carry. He wasn't sure what fascinated him most: these fierce-looking warriors, their weapons, or the prospect of more fresh meat.

"Oi, look smart there! What's an oke got to do to get some respect around here?" snapped the first boy, who wore a patch in the shape of an oryx on one shoulder.

The effect was instantaneous. Every boy in the hall, save Martijn, stood and saluted. Unsure of what to do, Martijn followed their lead and did the same.

"That's more like it. This is supposed to be a rangers' kraal, not some fokking girls' finishing school. Don't you agree, lads?" the leader asked his companions, who sniggered. "Old Oom Pardi is getting senile, if you ask me."

Martijn dared not move, though the smell of the fresh blood was tantalizing. He was drawn to the newcomers in a way he couldn't put into words. _Is this what I'll be doing here? Hunting and bringing meat like them? That looks like fun. _At that moment thoughts of his mother, and home, couldn't be farther away. He knew, somehow, that he wanted to be just like them.

"Have the cook butcher that _'vark_, Swart. What's left of it, anyway. It's in even worse shape than them three _kaffirs_, _ne_?"

Another person had come in behind the three boys, this one a grown man. He was of average height but muscular build, with closely-cropped receding hair. He, too, wore body armor, along with fatigues and high leather boots. Twin sidearms of a type Martijn didn't know where strapped to either thigh. Where his left eye should have been was a twisted, angry red scar. Ferocity radiated from him like heat from a therm lantern.

"Lookit, we got ourselves a new _muggie_."

It took Martijn a moment to realize the man was talking to him. He'd stopped right in front of where he and Geert had been sitting a moment ago.

"What's your name, runt?" the man asked in a low voice.

"Kruger."

Quicker than a snake, the man's hand shot out and slapped him. "You'll be calling me _'Koronel_' from now on. And don't bloody well stare. I'll let you off easy this time, seeing as you're new. Looks like you got stuck with the weakling here. I can only hope you have more _piel_ than him."

Stars danced in Martijn's field of vision. The blow had stunned him. "_Koronel_, I'm sorry," he said, apologizing and trying not to cry.

The man knelt down so that they were eye-to-eye. The one remaining eye, Martijn saw, was cold and empty, like those of the lizards. There was no love or pity there. "I don't want your fokking apology. I want your blood and your sweat and your loyalty to this kraal. If you can give me those day in and day out, I'm sure we'll get along fine. Do you understand?"

Martijn nodded. He didn't want another blow. "Yes, _Koronel_."

"Good. Swart, de Villiers, Vess, come."

Without another word, the man beckoned to his three followers, and they left the mangled pig carcass in their wake. Nobody moved a muscle, and it was as if everyone was holding his breath. Finally, after what seemed like forever, a collective sigh of relief filled the hall.

Martijn rubbed at his jaw. It stung like when he'd gotten badly sunburned. "Is that…" he started to ask Geert, who, he saw, was trembling like a leaf.

"Yes. That's Koronel Venter. I think you can see where he gets his nickname, _ne_? Now come on, let's get to bed before you get me in any more trouble."

_To Be Continued_

_Author's Note: In case anyone hasn't seen _District 9, _Nicolas Venter has the same surname as Koobus Venter and is the same sort of character. I'd like to think this is his grandson!_


	4. Initiation

Chapter 4: Initiation

"Get those legs up! _Opskud!_"

Martijn could barely feel his legs, much less get them any higher. He didn't feel the blows from the cane sticks either as the squad leader tried to urge him on. He was more exhausted than he could ever remember being before in his young life. Every part of his body ached. What was worse, nobody in this place showed the slightest bit of mercy. They only yelled at him and used the switch and cursed in both Afrikaans and, occasionally, English, which he didn't understand. But that hardly made it any more tolerable.

What had he done to make his mother want to leave him in such a place? What business could she possibly be attending to that was more important than taking care of her son? He'd been pondering the questions all day long. They took his mind off the pain, at least.

He was breathing heavily as he crossed the finish line for the obstacle course. Even Geert had finished far ahead of him. From early in the day, when he'd done push-ups and jumping jacks, Martijn had been in near-constant motion. When he tried to tell Riaan, his new squad leader, that he couldn't keep up and needed to rest, he'd received a thrashing for his trouble.

"You think the hostiles are gonna let you rest, you little _poes_? That they'll let you run home to your mother when you get tired during a skirmish?" the older boy had taunted in between blows.

Martijn was glad he hadn't cried. Once, his mother had admonished him against that. He'd never forgotten the lesson. When someone saw you cry, he knew you were weak. And he, Martijn Kruger, was not weak. He'd prove that, he was determined, one way or another. One day, he vowed, he'd be squad leader.

_Then we'll see who tries to beat me with a stick. _

On this, his first day, he was still finding his way around the kraal. He stopped, still panting, in the courtyard and tried to get his bearings. Geert had done his best to point things out in between training sessions, but Martijn still barely knew where the toilet was. After some trial and error, he'd found it: just a rough hole in the ground with some jagged plywood walls for privacy. It was worse than the one back home. And there was the matter of water. His first attempt to get a drink had been from a trough, which turned out to belong to the Kommandant's horse. Everyone else had laughed. He was just glad to get a drink, muddy or otherwise.

_Gomgat_ was the word he kept hearing the boys whisper when he approached their groups. He wasn't sure exactly what it meant, but he knew it wasn't a nice word. It meant the kind of idiot boy from a township who wore no shoes, who drank from livestock troughs and didn't know where the shitter was. Martijn thought that, if he had a chance, he'd call them all a bunch of spoiled _rooineks_ to their faces, just to see their reactions. But first, he had to eat.

Nobody, not even Geert, sat next to him in the mess. Maybe Geert was off getting his own punishment for finishing second to last today. Martijn didn't care. All he wanted was food…and there was plenty of it tonight, courtesy of the Koronel's hunting party. He sat by himself and shoveled the steaming pork into his mouth. Delicious. Much better than the lizards he and Ma used to blacken in the fire.

Silently he wondered what Ma was doing tonight. Did she miss him? Would she come back soon? Would he ever see her again?

Maybe it was the hot meat, and maybe it wasn't, but Martijn felt tears stinging his eyes. The timing couldn't have been worse, either, because when he looked up, Riaan Swart and his two goons were standing right in front of his table. They wore their armor, along with evil grins.

"Ain't that just so sweet, okes? Little _moffie_ here all torn up about something. What's wrong, your boyfriend stand you up for dinner?" Riaan said. The other two snorted.

"I don't have a boyfriend, okay?" Martijn shot back. He felt his heart beating faster. "Just leave me alone, all right?"

Riaan took the seat next to him. "Or maybe he's pining for his mum. Prob'y some bloody _loskind_, eh?"

"She is not," growled Martijn. He didn't know what the wordmeant, but Riaan's tone told him it was not a compliment. "Take that back."

"Oh, look, lads. Now we've upset him," said Riaan mock-seriously. He tipped over Martijn's flagon of milk and upended the tin plate. "Musta lost his appetite too. Shame, that."

Vess and de Villiers sniggered.

Martijn felt, along with his humiliation, a snarl in the back of his throat, like one of the feral dogs that roamed the townships. He could tell these three, Riaan and his two sidekicks, were trouble. They were also much bigger than him, fully armed, and well-trained. But he'd fought older kids before, kids who said the same sorts of things, and come out on top. He wasn't going to sit here and get made fun of. He may have been bone-weary and sore, but he was also pissed off and fueled by adrenaline. Besides, as his mother also used to say, a real man would fight to defend his family's honor.

Whether it was honor or something else that caused him to snap, Martijn didn't hold back. He bit down on Riaan's exposed hand. The older boy howled in pain. Vess and de Villiers reacted immediately, lunging to grab him. He was quicker. Months of stalking animals in the bush, and his naturally wiry build, had made Martijn a fast and agile athlete. In an instant he stood on the table, gaining the high ground.

Riaan swore and tried to lash out with the cane held in his uninjured left hand. He missed. Martijn planted one of his feet right into the other boy's face. There was a satisfying _crack_ and blood spurted. Before Martijn could make another move, though, Vess had grabbed onto his other foot. He found himself being roughly pulled down from the table. De Villiers pushed him down onto the floor, face up, and Martijn found himself looking into the ruined, and furious, face of Riaan Swart. He gasped for breath.

"I'll fokken kill you, you little piece of shit!"

Martijn had no doubt that the squad leader was speaking the truth. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for another beating, when he heard the voice of a most unlikely savior somewhere behind him.

"Swart! Back off, _jou bliksem_!"

It was the Koronel. Where he'd been all day, Martijn didn't know, but he was here now. By the look of fury on his face, Martijn guessed it wouldn't be wise to ask. He stayed silent and let Riaan do the talking.

"Koronel, this insolent _laaitie_ just attacked me for no reason. Isn't that so, guys?" said Riaan, looking to his sidekicks for confirmation. They both nodded enthusiastically. "You better teach him a lesson, show him he's not the fokken king of the hill here."

For a moment the Koronel was quiet, as if he were weighing the evidence. The blood, the spilled milk, Martijn flat on his back. When he did speak, it was in a voice so quiet, only Riaan and Martijn could hear. "If you ever speak to me like that again, Swart, I'll put you in the sweat hut so long you'll fokken beg for death." He turned his fury to Martijn. "As for you, I think Swart has a point. You need to learn your place here. I don't care that this is your first day. Get up, you _poes_, you're going to learn the hard way."

Every eye in the mess hall was on them. As Venter marched him roughly out, all Martijn could think was that this was surely cause for demerits. And that he would be all anybody was talking about tonight.

s s s

Martijn's heart hammered in his chest as they climbed a staircase. The Koronel hadn't said a word, his fierce visage staring straight ahead. Was that a good thing? Was he really a nice enough oke despite Geert's warning? Martijn somehow knew that he was not, and that he, Martijn, was in real trouble. This was the kind of man Ma always warned him about, the kind who roamed the shadows and only worshipped the gods of pain and suffering.

"I'm gonna make you wish your _kont_ of a mother had never brought you screaming into this world," he finally spoke, and his voice really was like a hyena's: harsh, with sadistic pleasure lurking beneath. "You're mine now."

Though he tried desperately not to show it, Martijn felt the fear coursing through him now. His legs, already numb from the day's exertions, quivered as he walked. His Adam's apple did a nervous dance up and down. What awaited him? How would he be punished? He doubted it was anything as mundane or easy as kitchen duty or push-ups.

"I like working with the _laities_ like you. Get 'em used to pain early, see, and…"

"Nicolas? Where are you taking that boy?"

In his haze of terror, Martijn hadn't noticed that they had reached the officers' quarters. The speaker was none other than the Kommandant, who stood stooped in a doorway, watching the two of them as they passed. He wore his dusty fatigues and an expression that, on another man, might have been one of amusement.

"He's been fighting with his superiors. He just needs to be taught a lesson," the Koronel said.

Martijn looked up to the big man with pleading eyes. He was too terrified to say a word, but he hoped somehow the Kommandant would intervene. _Please, help me! _he thought. _I didn't know; I swear I'll never do it again!_

"This one is new, Nicolas. He still barely knows where the barracks are, and I certainly wouldn't expect him to know all the rules. Don't you remember your first day here? I do," Oom Pardi said, "and as I recall, a certain squad leader helped you get through that day, and the days to follow, nearly unscathed." It was as if he had read Martijn's mind.

"That has nothing to do with it! He was breaking one of our rules!" the Koronel shot back. He clenched Martijn's arm tightly. "You want to let him get away with that? Let the others see they can disobey if they want?"

The Kommandant stepped forward. He was nearly a head taller than Venter. Martijn saw the cold fury in his dark eyes. "I'll only say this once, Nicolas, but it isn't right to fight with _your _superiors either. Nor will I have that kind of language in my kraal. We are veld rangers, not savages. As for the recruit, leave him with me. I'll mete out his punishment and see him back to his barracks."

"Fine, but when he's in the ranks tomorrow, I'm not putting up with any of this fok…this bloody nonsense. Kommandant." Venter spat out the rank like poison. "I'll be back later for the night's intelligence briefing." He let Martijn go, but not before casting an evil glance in his direction. He left them and continued down the dark corridor to points unknown.

Martijn scurried behind the Kommandant like a tiny moon in orbit of a planet. When it seemed safe that the Koronel had gone, the words gushed out of him.

"I didn't do nothing wrong, I swear I didn't. He was calling my Ma all sorts of bad things and I just had to show him and…"

With a wave of one huge hand, the Kommandant silenced him. "I don't want to hear it right now." For the first but certainly not the last time, Martijn saw the many lines and scars on Oom Pardi's face. He sounded as tired as Martijn felt. "Now, inside, please. We need to discuss your punishment."

The room was unlike anything the boy had come to know. It reminded him of the time Ma had taken him to a doctor's home in the _dorp _when he came down with a fever: cozy, with shabby but inviting furniture, a fireplace, and the glass-eyed heads of veld animals on the walls. There were stacks of bound paper things lining one wall…what had been the word for those? He couldn't remember. There were no weapons Martijn could see save one: a gleaming, exotic-looking sword atop the mantle. It was the poshest place he'd ever seen, and he immediately liked it.

"Do you live here?" Martijn blurted out.

The Kommandant took a seat in a high-backed chair behind a battered desk. "I work here. My quarters are with the other officers. Now," he said, steering back to the topic at hand, "what have you to say for yourself, Recruit? Is what the Koronel said true? Did you fight with a superior?"

Before he could help himself, Martijn told the whole story of the events leading up to the fight with Riaan. How he made the squad leader angry during exercises, how the other cadets called him names, how much he missed his Ma. By the time he got to that part, Martijn felt the tears spilling down his cheeks and hated himself for it. "I didn't mean to fight him. He deserved it," he said for at least the third time, sniffling.

Through it all, Oom Pardi had sat silently, listening and occasionally nodding. He leaned forward in his chair thoughtfully. "Yes, Swart and his friends like to lord over the young ones like you. So does Nicolas, for that matter. The Koronel, to you." He half-smiled, as if enjoying a private joke. "But it doesn't make it right to fight whenever someone calls you a nasty name or looks at you the wrong way, does it?"

Martijn wasn't sure if he was meant to answer the question. "I had to stand up for my Ma," he said stubbornly.

"Your Ma did you right by bringing you to us. I'm sure she is a good woman. But to survive at this kraal, you must learn our ways, and quickly. One of those ways is respect for superiors. From now on, Kruger, you will do what you are told and keep your head down. That alone will serve you well during these hard times. Do you understand?" The Kommandant's expression had softened.

"Yes…sir," Martijn said. "But why do they treat me like that? I didn't do nothing to them."

The older man peered down at him. "They will always look for weakness. Their job is to build the strength in you and suppress the weakness, so that we can successfully defend our homeland." He paused. "Did your Ma ever tell you the story of the two lions?"

Martijn shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Well, let me tell it to you, the way I can recall my _oupa_ telling it to me. There are two lions inside every man, you see. Anyhow, the two lions: one is a jealous, envious, bitter old creature, full of hate and quick to anger. His brother is the lion who is brave, noble, able to forgive and experience love. These two lions are always at war and only one can survive."

"So which lion wins?"

The Kommandant smiled sadly. "It is the one which you nourish."

Martijn didn't understand. It all sounded so confusing to him. Lions inside him? What _kak_. He was tired and hungry, his head ached, and he really just wanted to sleep. "What about my punishment?" he yawned. "Are you gonna lash me or something?"

"Hardly. Consider this a warning, but you can't let it happen again," said Oom Pardi gently. " As for your punishment, if you'd like to call it that, is to study this and give me an oral report when you finish." From atop his desk, he handed Martijn one of the bound volumes.

"Do you know how to read?"

He didn't. He had a feeling it was another thing he'd have to learn quickly.

s s s

Martijn had no idea what time it was by the time the Kommandant brought him back to the barracks, book (_that _was the word he'd forgotten) in hand. It felt far too late and sleep was calling. Inside, the rows of cots were illuminated by the weak light of a few therm lanters. Geert and two dozen other boys stood inside, like they'd been waiting to surprise him.

What happened next took him completely by surprise. They didn't call him _gomgat_, didn't laugh at him, didn't turn their backs on him. They broke into spontaneous, raucous applause and cheers. Boys he didn't yet know by name swarmed him and began to chatter appreciatively and clap him on the back.

"You really showed those _maaifoedies,_ man! Good for you!"

"Hey, that's so _kwaai_ somebody finally stood up to those bastards."

"Martijn, right? You want the cot next to mine, mate?"

Through all the noise and excitement, Martijn found himself grinning. This morning he'd been an outcast. Now, he was some kind of folk hero. He knew the party would go on long into the night. Somehow he didn't care that he'd have to get up and do it all over again at 0600. The barracks no longer felt cold and uninviting.

They felt like home.

_To Be Continued_


End file.
